


Magnanimity

by Pakeha



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Baby Frodo, Character Study, Comfort, Drabble, Families of Choice, Fatherhood Feels, Gen, M/M, Parent Thranduil, Slice of Life, Sweet, implied - Freeform, minimal angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/pseuds/Pakeha
Summary: During a celebratory feast for Dwarf and Elf alike, Thranduil sits apart from the rest to keep company with the night’s smallest celebrant.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, implied
Comments: 24
Kudos: 279





	Magnanimity

**Author's Note:**

> I really just tend to write the fic I want to read. This week I really wanted to read Thranduil being a doting, baby-loving sap. Happy Father’s Day y’all.

“That will not be necessary.” 

The abundance of candles illuminating the cavernous feasting hall of the Green Wood reflected off the king’s white-blonde hair, sparkling like a cascade of starlight, flowing like a golden river as he flipped his long tresses back over his shoulder.

“My Lord-“ the young dwarf prince in front of him looked hesitant and Thranduil’s ire flared, his chin tilting up so he could gaze down with haughty imperiousness at the miserable son of Durin who dared to question him.

“I do not repeat myself.” He spoke lowly. 

The dwarf appeared to pale all the way down to the strands of his black beard and he bowed once before hesitantly backing up and away, clearly defeated.

All around the feast carried on, oblivious to the tense interaction playing out before the king’s throne. The marvel of a (relatively) successful conclusion to the biennial trade negotiations between Mirkwood Elves and Erebor Dwarves was more than enough cause for a thorough celebration. Despite the hearty constitutions of both participating species there was nary a sober cheek left to be spotted in the room: flushed laughter and ribald song twined and lifted together up to the ancient branches which wove above into the hall’s wild, wending rafters.

A few more moments of hesitation and at last the troubled dwarf turned and disappeared completely back between the throngs of celebrants, giving up on his plot to separate Thranduil from the prize he had cradled in his arms.

Slowly Thranduil’s shoulders relaxed, his hackles settling, pleased to have gotten his way. 

The Elfking was not a creature wont to smile, loathe to betray his inner thoughts to any but his closest advisors, but he could not help the small quirk of a satisfied smirk which twitched at the corner of his lips. 

“Ada.” The gentle scold sounded at his left shoulder. Thranduil was neither surprised nor bothered to hear it.

“You cannot keep him with you forever.” Legolas continued lowly, a hint of laughter in his tone. The king could feel his youngest son put his hand on the back of the throne, the young man leaning forward to peer curiously over his father at what was resting in his lap.

The elven king marginally tilted his head to the side, his hair once more shifting its spill, glittering again in its resplendent sprawl. 

“I fail to see why I cannot.” He drawled, changing his grip on the bundle in his arms just slightly, shifting the precious burden’s weight higher up against the bend on his elbow and towards the slightly more generous cushion of muscle along his narrow bicep. 

“ _Ada-_ ” the prince tried to begin again but at that moment there was a shatter of breaking earthenware from somewhere in the crowd, a roar of good-spirited laughter, and Thranduil could convincingly pretend there was far too much noise for him to hear any more of his son’s chastisements. With the one hand he had free he lifted his fingers up and made a shooing gesture, urging Legolas to return to the party and leave him be. 

It must have been testament to the quality of the revelry that his stubborn offspring did not try to fight him any harder. He just held his father’s gaze for a long minute before sighing with a shake of his head and an amused grin, turning to do as he was bade. 

As his son’s lean form also disappeared amongst the masses, Thranduil at last found himself sat alone on the throne, the dais otherwise cleared of courtiers and advisors and politicians. 

Amidst the chaos and the ruckus, the music and tales and clatter of plates, the clinking of glasses, the stomping of feet, Thranduil felt a deep peace the likes of which he had not experienced in at least nine hundred years. 

Low against his chest the dear treasure to whom he served tonight as steward shifted. The tip of one of the king’s long, pointed ears twitched as he heard the small sigh that accompanied the tiny billow of breath against the fine silk of his robe, the babe cradled against the crook of his arm turning its soft, serious face against the fine weave of the fabric. 

Thranduil knew that the Dwarven contingent would be returning to their mountain early the following morn. He wondered if there was yet time enough to set his tailor to dismantling this garment and turning it into a quilt for the faunt.

The air in the hall was warm even for spring time, made pleasantly humid and cozy by the masses it sheltered. 

The cold which usually plagued the king’s hands was thoroughly banished for the evening. It made it easy for him to reach out with three gentle fingers, running the backs of them over the round cheek of the child cradled to his breast. 

Over his long years Thranduil had been blessed with three glorious, brilliant, at times infuriating sons whom he cherished with every shard of his soul. He would not change one hair on their heads for all of the gems in all of Arda. 

Still there were moments when he was weak and he felt a lonely yearning to again have this with them: the warmth and the weight and the trust of a babe sheltered in his arms.

The faunt snuffled and nuzzled against his robe once more, the minuscule bow of his lips smacking before settling, seemingly at peace even amidst the wildest party Mirkwood had seen in many years. 

The earnest swell of pride and deep affection this conjured in the king eddied up so swiftly it was dizzying.

Thranduil kept his face rigidly calm and neutral, his eyes cast firmly down towards the child who would not judge him for the way they glittered. 

“May I sit here?”

Slipping in through the quiet, private tranquility of Thranduil’s world came another voice, lower, near the elbow not currently supporting an infant’s head. 

The elven king glanced down to regard the interloper, already knowing whom had come to intrude on the moment. 

“Master Baggins.” He acknowledged, nodding slightly towards the hobbit who had one hand resting on the arm of the smaller, far less ornate chair which sat next to the king’s throne. Technically it was a place reserved for his chief advisor or one of his sons, but since said persons were likely deep in their cups at the long tables below, at the moment the space was free enough to be borrowed by a visiting dignitary such as Bilbo.

The hobbit gave his own nod of thanks and took his seat, surprisingly graceful despite the fact that the height of the chair required him to do something of a little hop to get situated. 

Regaled in luxurious, Durin blue with a pattern of golden wheat stalks and stars across the collar and lapels, the pastoral creature looked uniquely at home amidst the merriment. A gentle hobbit and forever a consummate host, he kept one watchful eye to the room while still giving the king the sincere bulk of his attention.

“I’d like to thank you again for your hospitality. You certainly throw an excellent party.” He began after a moment’s companionable silence, pitching his voice just loud enough for Thranduil’s hearing to pick up on his pleasantries. 

Another nod dipped the king’s chin. His free hand settled in a possessive curve over the faunt’s full belly, his forearm flexing slightly as he pressed the child closer to him. 

“...I admit I am surprised to not see you more wholly partaking of the festivities.”

Raising a dark, elegantly shaped eyebrow Thranduil flicked his eyes towards the goblet and the half-empty bottle of Dorwinion wine posed on the small table that had been set up between the two chairs. Bilbo let a little huff of amusement escape his lips, bobbing his head in reluctant acknowledgement. 

“Yes, I see. It’s just- You do not have to hold him all night if you don’t wish to, you understand?” The Hobbit pried cautiously, clearly attempting to be politic about things. 

For a moment Thranduil wondered if he should become offended. _Of course_ he felt no _obligation_ to serve as caregiver to the little one this evening. 

It was, however, extremely difficult to conjure up any real vexation while holding such a delightful being as baby Frodo. 

There was no will in him to develop anything close to a proper snit, so he just shrugged one elegant shoulder, immediately forgetting about Bilbo’s presence the moment his movement caused the infant to fuss. 

He gently bobbed the cradle of his arms a few times, reaching out to smooth the infant’s short dark curls back against his tiny skull, lulling the child back into a state of calm. 

“He has been a bit colicky this past week.” Bilbo murmured as Frodo settled back into the comfort of the Elfking’s arms. “I would feel awful if he-“

Growing quite weary of feeble excuses to oust the babe in his charge Thranduil turned a firm gaze to his guest and declared “I assure you good hobbit that there is not a thing this child could do which would turn me against him or force his eviction from my favor.”

The Hobbit blinked once, twice. “Oh.”

Suddenly Groher, the noble warrior who led the hunt for the night’s feast, rushed past the dais moving fast enough to create a draft that smelled of sweet smoke and a liberal spill of dark wine. His long red hair was free of braids for the revelry and fluttered behind him like a fog of blood. His voice, always loud for an elf, was raised in delight as he made his way towards some friend he had spotted across the room. 

Thranduil, previously pleased with the work the ellon had put into securing them meat for their meal, briefly considered ordering the man to the dungeons for the foreseeable future when his hollering caused Frodo’s eyes to drag open, a whine screwing the babe’s face up in a rictus of displeasure. 

Fortunately for Groher, Thranduil became immediately occupied with soothing the faunt and put his ire with the hunter on hold.

In the neighboring chair Bilbo chuckled gently, content to watch the king fuss. “You are quite taken with him, aren’t you?”

Lifting his gaze from Frodo he favored Bilbo with a quizzical expression. “Are you not?”

Bilbo looked almost affronted. “He is my beloved nephew and legally my ward. I have every conviction to love and raise this boy as my own son. Yes I am _quite taken with him._ ” Bilbo placed plenty of emphasis on the last phrase, clearly finding the formality of it amusing. Thranduil could see the humor himself and gifted the hobbit one of his rare, sincere smiles. 

“I am just… surprised to see how you have connected with him.” The hobbit expounded carefully, his short fingernails picking at an invisible thread at the hem of his coat, his eyes slipping from their hold on Thranduil’s to watch the experienced manner in which the king absently calmed the squirming infant in his arms. 

The king turned his own gaze down to Frodo again, indignant to explain himself to anyone, but feeling oddly obligated to the hobbit since this was, after all, Bilbo’s child.

“I am many things, Bilbo Baggins. Among my myriad titles I am three times named father. Is it so strange that I would be comfortable with a babe in my arms?”

For a moment there was silence between them, buttressed by the general joviality of the room. When the Hobbit spoke it was at a pitch only elfin ears would be able to register. 

“No, I suppose it is not nearly so strange as I thought it to be.”

Plucking at the neat strings of his many memories Thranduil began searching for remembrance of the last baby born to this kingdom. It was not Legolas, although the boy had been brought forth into the already growing darkness of the Mirkwood devouring the name Eryn Lasgalen and turning this to a place of great fear. 

There were not a great many who came after him. 

Orniel, then. It was she, born seven hundred and three years past his own son, who was the last infant to fill these halls with the symphony of a child’s laughter and the thunder of her cries. 

Thranduil’s eyes lifted to scan the crowd, finding the elleth easily, her impressive stature and winter wheat hair more than explanation for the trio of elf lords paying her court. Her parents would have approved of any of the trio if they took up suit, Thranduil imagines, though the scribner pair had both been taken with sea longing some years past and had sailed for western shores leaving Orniel and her elder brother Olion behind as loyal attendants of the Wood King’s halls. 

While not impossible that another babe could be born to them here, Thranduil reflected, not for the first time, that perhaps no more elflings would be brought up in this place. Even in the relative peace they had so tentatively cultivated these past four years, he was not ignorant to the darkness which yet seethed and grew, not just within his borders, but across the breadth of Arda. 

He was an old king. Not quite as ancient as the high elves who flit about in Lothlorien, but old enough to have grown deep instincts and profound intuition. 

He would protect and defend this place to his last breath and beyond if it was asked of him. Yet he was not so proud to assume that his dedication, his wisdom, his creativity, his strength would definitely be enough to save his land if anything truly vicious were to come and try to claim it. 

Every day, every hour, he knew that this hall may perchance descend into twilight and then to darkness and despair. No other child may ever call it home. 

“Your majesty?”

Thranduil’s throat bobbed subtly as he swallowed. “Your king dwarf, the Oakenshield is… he is _blessed_ with good fortune to have this little one come to share his mountain.”

“Aye.” Bilbo agreed solemnly after a breath of silence, and Thranduil did not have to look at him to know the warmth of his smile. “He has said as much to me many times since we collected dear Frodo from the Shire. The passing of my cousins Drogo and Primula is a tragedy beyond words, and though they would never have chosen to leave their son, I would like to believe they would be pleased to know how well Frodo will be loved, even in a household as… untraditional as mine has come to be. 

“We are blessed indeed.”

The tiny hobbit had relaxed back into sleep in the king’s embrace and with a quiet sigh of his own Thranduil settled back against the skillfully carved comfort of his throne. 

Hobbits were creatures of growth and of life. They were nearly as pulled to the earth, to green things and growing things as elfinkind were. It would be strange for the little one to be raised behind walls of stone. 

“He is welcome in my court, as he grows.” The king decreed abruptly, a spontaneous bout of conviction he felt helpless to curtail. “These halls will be safe to him always, and to you, Master Baggins.”

“And to Thorin and the dwarves of Erebor?” If Bilbo were surprised by this declaration he did not show it, replying immediately to Thranduil’s words. 

The king maintained an expression of chilly neutrality, his face betraying no hint of his true feelings on the matter. “If they must accompany Master Frodo then so be it.”

Bilbo had the gall to chuckle at him. “Your magnanimity pays you credit, my lord.”

Thranduil’s eyes glittered and the corner of his mouth again lifted in a smirk. He was apparently fated to exercise his smiles tonight and perhaps this was for the best, lest the muscles grow sore and weak with lack of practice.

“I am a generous king.” He confirmed haughtily. “Now go, enjoy the feast. I see many of your Dwarrow friends engaged ain hearty revelry. You wish to join them.”

“If you’d like I can take Frodo-“ The Hobbit offered, his tone truly disingenuous and full of cheek and Thranduil huffed, adopting a tilt to his head which once more painted him regal and aloof. 

“The wilds of a Lasgalen feast are no place for a babe. I shall see him safe and in comfort here for the rest of the evening.”

“Generous indeed.” Bilbo laughed. Then, with great familiarity, the Hobbit dared to reach over and pat the king’s arm once before sliding from the chair and taking the king up on his suggestion, trotting off to join with his friends. 

Again Thranduil considered being offended but it would take just so very much effort right now. 

Frodo yawned and the elf king smiled down at him, free of self consciousness.

Yes, he was very magnanimous indeed.


End file.
